028.

The sun rose lazily and gathered clouds around it so no one would know it wasn’t shining as brightly. People would blame the clouds for blocking its rays. Clouds are airy things and don’t mind being scapegoats. They would never tell the people below that the sun could easily make them go away if it only shined brighter. They preferred to be silent and mysterious.

The sun looked upward to the stars. Nobody else could see them when the sun was out. It had them all to itself. Some were brighter than others and the sun wondered if they were having lazy days as well. Surely they also felt the fatigue from shining all the time.

But the sun started to wonder how bright it looked to the other stars. Was it part of some constellation that could only be seen from far away?

The sun decided to burn brighter.

027.

Immediately after blowing out the candles on his birthday cake, a diamond-tipped power drill, the schematics for a Hamilton SJ-195 bank vault door, several ski masks and a group of blunt-looking and possibly armed men appeared.

The party guests gasped amongst the Little League-themed banners, plastic plates and paper cups.

Billy grinned at the baseball bat-shaped cake and said, “Now we get to work.”

026.

He bought her birthday cards almost every Father’s Day. She must have been born in June. Her mother gave him The Speech in early October twenty-two years previous. How far along had she been? His brain shut down minutes into The Speech and was woken up at the end by knee-jerk joy at having dodged a bullet. He didn’t have To Be There. She didn’t need or want him to be.

She left. How much of her strength was an act? How much of it wasn’t an act anymore?

He walked past the barren, picked-over aisle of Father’s Day cards to the Happy Birthday – Daughter section. He couldn’t address it. He couldn’t even put a name on it. Daughter.

Maybe with his dark, curly hair. Maybe with her mother’s stubborn green eyes.

He watched a girl rifle through the remaining Father’s Day cards and wondered if Daughter ever found one.

025.

If he could hear the soundtrack he might not be so unsure. A heartbeat pounds in his ears but he feels no connection with it. His chest is filled with falling clouds. A string section tells the audience the end is coming.

From his vantage point on the ground he can see two armed men at the door of the bank. He can hear rustling around what must be the teller windows. One shouts demands from the bay windows. A woman cries. He hears a gun cock.

A crescendo starts to build in the score. Heavy bass drums overpower the strings. They become forceful, sounding predestined, as he realizes the woman will be used to make a point. The booming instruments echo his rising pulse.

He doesn’t know if he can stop it. Just that he should. Only the audience knows he will. If he knew he could, he couldn’t.

024.

The 1200 Baud Lair was back! With the original messaging and post database preserved!

Steven saw the notification on a listerv he’d long forgotten he subscribed to. When the Internet eradicated the local BBS scene, Wally’d started the list to keep the culture alive. Twenty or thirty people had carved out something special, at least in hindsight. For little while. Wally. Steven. Joel. Ada. Phaedrus. Chris… Poor Chris…

Part of the special was in the interface. The blinking green cursor. The archaic commands to move between forums. The listserv died after a couple months. Some of the old crew lurked in the background of social networks but the connections weren’t the same without being preceded by the dial tones of a 1200-baud modem.

Steven telnetted into the system and was greeted by the familiar ASCII art of a quill. He had an email notification. From Chris. Poor, dead Chris.

023.

The Fourth of July Festival, falling almost exactly halfway through summer break, was where you’d reconnect with the kids from school you weren’t friends enough with to see without forced proximity.

These are the kids who grow up to be the coworkers you talk to in the hallway but don’t see on weekends or holidays. Your coworkers never show up suddenly taller though or tanner and with sun-bleached hair. The boy who shows up with the girl you don’t dare talk to usually isn’t the one who’s been sporadically beating you up for years.

You see him smirking and he socks you in the gut without a touch.

Years later you still don’t know what the feeling is when you watch them start to argue. When you watch her push him away with pre-adolescent finality. When you see him sit alone, staring at the ground while the fireworks explode overhead.

022.

“You broke Titan’s leg! You SUCK!”

Michael wasn’t used to flying from show to show and he wasn’t used to being recognized by ten year olds in airports. The kid looked like he would explode with indignation. Michael looked around for anything the kid might throw. He saw the father grinning behind him. They were both dressed in Titan T-shirts, hats and wristbands. Paying customers.

They started to chant “Titan!” A small group joined in while the rest of the commuters looked on, curiously unaware. Chant it enough and it becomes “Tan Tie! Tan Tie!” Michael forced his grin into a scowl.

Titan needed to film a movie and had graciously agreed to let Michael wield the cinderblock that would write him out of the storylines. Once shooting wrapped, he’d be back to exact his scripted revenge. The kid would explode with joy.

“And I’ll do it again,” hissed Michael.